Category Archives: Boys

Fear and Loathing in Secondary School, Part 1:



This is a guest post from Moiret Allegiere.  He has a great deal to say about our plight as men in today’s insane misandrist world. You can find his blog here.

My first inklings that life was a dismally unfair thing came in a blast during my years of secondary education. It was during those years, as the pre-pubescent freedom of childhood-bliss flew away to be replaced by puberty, hormones, madness and perpetual crisis; as my boyish body first manifested clear signs of manhood, that the first properly understood symptoms from the infection of feminism showed its face in classrooms as clear and as brittle as glass.

Of course; the signs were there that the girls were preferred and protected by teachers prior to this. Yet – in the prepubescent bliss of childhood, we are close to sex-less as no sexual characteristics are on display. At the very least not obviously so. The most obvious signs of sex and gender and the differences therein came from the mouths of us boys and girls who, in our childish innocence, believed the opposing side to have cooties. This made for some good moments and fond memories of chemical gender-warfare, as both sides did their very best to spread their cooties into the other camp and so infect them. In order to create spies willing to divulge the strategic and tactical secrets of the other side so that the war could be won and ended once and for all, I suppose.

Looking at it in hindsight and with that peculiar gleam of nostalgia that tend to come post-thirtieth birthday, it is clear that this was nothing more than the onset of puberty, the moment where we understood something which we could not properly articulate at the time – that is; the other side is as intriguing and fascinating as it is terrifying and kinda icky, and if I could only understand where the fuck these strange and conflicting emotions stem from I might be able to process the information properly. Besides; I never yet realised how beautiful her hair was and what in the hell does all this mean; those strange butterflies, that weird skipping of my heart, that strange and primal attraction? Better punch her in the shoulder and run away, laughing. Boys will be boys.

And so, fare-thee-well innocence, welcome confusion, welcome inner turmoil. Welcome puberty. Welcome gender-war tacticians in the shape of teachers speaking in twisted tongues, teaching all about the serpent cult of feminism. The oracle and the spectacle, the feminist ideology, the -ism told in twos and threes and twisted tattle-tales. Not as yet mentioned by name, but lying there still, coiled at the feet of the altar in front of the dismally black black-hole black-board where nimble spinning tongues and fingers spun nimbly spinning half-truths or full lies spat into our open mouths and minds that lapped it up as truth-without-a-doubt; an altar upon which we were placed as a sacrifice to the -ism, to remodel and restructure our biology and our sexuality as the horrid beasts of masculinity that we were then on the verge of becoming.

And here I find myself caught in a crossroad, with many a road to follow. Figuring out which road to walk down is a difficult one. I could express the weird confusion felt from schools telling me that what I experienced within during puberty was a social construct; that what I knew to do in order to express my blossoming masculinity was not something innate to my nature, but something learned from this society wherein all things gender is a construct and we are all blank slates.

I could explain the further confusion created as the teachers all insisted that the girls matured faster and better than the boys, even if all things gender is a social construct and so – really – there should be no differences in the level of maturation where the brains of boys and girls are concerned.

Not to mention that, if all things are a social construct, as we were told, then maturation is also a social construct and not anything to take seriously. Or that this train of thought further whisper to me that the only thing these statements meant, when taken to their logical conclusion, is quite simple: gender is a social construct. We are all blank slates. The girls mature faster than the boys. Even when maturation is also a social construct. The schools have chosen the feminine as the norm, as the way to measure maturity and the proper way to teach and to learn, in other words… This difference of maturation, this apparently incredible evidence of the moral, intellectual and emotional superiority of the girls were mentioned as often as possible, beat into our adolescent minds to make sure that we understood and remembered this so-called fact.

I could pick out single instances, single anecdotes of obvious preferential treatment of the girls – to the detriment of boys – and tell them in full. I have many of these anecdotes, many memories stored away of very clear discriminatory behaviour from the schools and from the teachers, that no-one gave a fuck about seeing as it was the boys in entirety that was singled out for social execution and shame and not the girls. See, I am cursed with a very good long-term memory and a terrible short-term memory. Might have to turn this into a series of sort. We’ll see.

…or I could try and explain how this dark cloud of shame that was forced down over the heads of the boys manifested in me personally.

…I could tell tales of how feminism wormed its way into the girls of my class and class-room-fancy, turning quite a few of them into footsoldiers for the explosive feminist revolution wielding such ridiculous arguments – hung up in the corridors of our schools come international women’s day as hand-made posters, funnily enough with loads of glitter and pink as I recall – that a female nurse earns less than a male doctor, and that this is a clear sign of gendered discrimination.

I am not making this shit up.

Opposition to this nonsense, this clear political activism was met with protest from teachers and students alike, making it very clear which opinion was OK to hold and which was not. Even when the argument presented on the preposterous posters was not one of logic or of reason, even when the argument presented made no sense at all. Disobedience is not allowed. One must not go against the holy grain and coffee-stain of feminism, lest one be shunned and publicly shamed for doing so by teachers wielding the magical double-speak staff that says that all voices shall be heard, as long as it is the voices of the girls that scream feminism in your ears and immature minds that are heard.

I remember one particular instance in a physical education class. One of our resident “mean girls” – and you all knew this girl growing up, I fucking guarantee it – the queen bitch, the bully and tin-pot tyrant, Ms. Queen bee supreme who looked down her nose on everyone and treated everyone like shit if they were not within her immediate circle of friends, buzzing around her magnificent form and shape as she wreaked bloody havoc on everything and everyone… yeah, you know the girl, you know the trope, you know the stereotype. The tropish stereotype is there for a reason, shining bright in every single high-school comedy or drama we have ever seen, just as true and magnificent as are the jocks that surround her and beckon to her every wish and demand.

It just so happens that one of her victims of perpetual bullying and mean-girl ways and vices had finally had enough and struck back. Not in any physical way, gentlemen as we were indoctrinated into being – one should never hit a girl, no matter what, you know – no, he had responded in kind to her snarling lips and on-going, for at least a year, systematic bullying with a vicious insult. I can not remember what she said that triggered his comeback, nor can I remember what he said. I was not present at the moment. No doubt, it was trivial – as these things go. Yet, in the vice-grip of confusing puberty, as we all know, nothing is ever trivial.

In this P.E. class, our entire class was made to stand to attention and listen as Ms. Queen Bee supreme stood behind the teacher, crying. Obviously, the tin-pot tyrant’s first instinct at opposition was to run crying to our teacher, playing victim. And we all had to stand there and listen as our teacher confronted the one who had done nothing but reply in kind; berating him and telling us all how horrible he had acted, how there were limits – even in hell – as our teacher, who of course was a woman, put it. DARVO-ing is learned quickly and it is encouraged brutally.

Absolutely astonishing, I thought then and I think now. If it was not made evident prior to this, it was bloody obvious after this that the girls were untouchable, no matter what they did. And I looked at the face of the one who had replied in kind as he was dumbstruck, completely aware that whatever he said, he would come out the loser and the scapegoat and that she – the bully and the instigator – now stood free to do what ever the hell she wanted to do and he could do nothing, nor could he expect justice served from those who were supposed to serve justice at our school. The stacks were stacked against him, as they were stacked against all the boys for the single crime of being nothing but boys, for the crime of becoming men. As expected, this incidence also let loose the ever-present shaming of the boys and their lack of maturity. For some reason, this was clear-cut evidence of the moral and emotional superiority of the girls; of their incredible maturity. Or the teacher just wanted an excuse to brow-beat us boys a little more for her own personal bias and satisfaction. Which I suspect to be the case, as you can always count on a dyed-in-the-wool feminist to use any opportunity to go on a petulant tirade about her most preferred topic – that is, the evil that men do.

There were many instances of this nature. The ideology of feminism shone and shimmered and enveloped all of our school and all of our schooling within its web and in its cocoons.

I remember being yelled at by a female pupil for having the gall – the audacity – of being born at the eight of march, which is international women’s day, and about as much fun as one can imagine.

That I – a foul male – would dare celebrate my birthday at this day of all women was an affront to the holy forces of fragile femininity; just that I was born on that most fateful day was enough to pull her g-string over her head and deliver an atomic mental wedgie. Such a terrible act on my part; such a display of toxic masculinity this, to dare be born on that most hallowed day! Of course, she was nothing but a bitch and an insufferable cunt caught just as much in the confusing mud of puberty as I was. But she was upheld and guided by the primal rage of feminism taught in school. And that is where the problem lies. I would not remember this as clearly now, all these years later, were it not for that fact. This was learned behaviour; accepted behaviour within the walls of our indoctrination-chambers that told her and taught her that she could act like this, with impunity, as long as the victim of her fury and her frenzy was a boy, was becoming a man, was someone who was not a woman or becoming a woman.

Yet, it was during sexual education that the searing misandry was made the most evident. Or, I should say, the most blatant. For beneath that roof and between the scarred and broken thighs of our indoctrination chamber, the ugliness and brute simplicity of male sexuality was made clear to us, as was the beauty and divine complexity of female sexuality. In a flash and a heat and what could quite possibly be referred to as a series of temper tantrums by our teacher, men and their lack of care and compassion during sex, as well as their lack of knowledge of the female body and sacred female orgasm was brought us as communion wafers; foul smelling pieces of bullshit served on a silver platter that we were made to swallow whole and make part of our one and our all. Where male sexuality was concerned, it was so simplistic – apparently – as to be waved away in a token hand-gesture; pull her, prod there, ejaculate and finish. Men, you see, did not necessarily have any manner of emotional connection to the more-or-less willing victims of their simian sexuality. Quite the contrary; ours was a philosophy of pump-and-dump. As opposed to women, whose sexuality was driven by emotional connection and nothing more and nothing less.

Sexual education was nothing but female sexual liberation and male sexual incarceration in front of the holy black-board, behind a make-shift altar of prophylactics and planned parenthood. The birds and the bees and how pregnancy works and all that jazz was mentioned, of course, as though it had to be done quickly and be done with. The purely biological reasons for sexuality, for fornication – that is – the urge to procreate – and how all that stuff actually works was mentioned briefly, and then forgotten in the rush to whip the boys with the nine-tailed cat of sexual shame for our simpering sexual simplicity.

For, you see, it was made out to be the fault of men – that is the patriarchy – that women and girls didn’t masturbate as frequently as boys and men did, that women and girls didn’t know their own bodies as well as they – apparently – should by that point in their lives.

And I can not help but think that maybe these poor and pitiful victims of a lack of masturbation would flick the bean with more regularity were they not told that their bodies and their sexuality was something sacred, something hallowed that was not to be given away or touched willy-nilly, but something to be savoured and treated as some peculiar sacrament.

Were they not told that sex is given to men and done to women, but told the simple truth of the matter: that fucking is one of our most basic primal instincts and that sex is – at the same time – the most profound and the most simple pleasure of life.

See, it sounds very traditional, does it not, that sex is something done to women by men and given to men by women? It is a very gender-stereotypical view of things; men can not control themselves and women must be protected from men. Would a chaperon be a good idea, perhaps and perchance? It is a tale as old as time, and here it was presented as something new, something profound, something liberating for women. It boggles the mind. But, it is as these things are: those who do not understand history are doomed to repeat it. It is the same-old-same-old packaged and presented as something new. Same shit, different day.

I am no prude, and I have no issues with talking about sex and sexuality. Quite the contrary – I find it to be a very interesting topic of discussion. One of the reasons for this is that I find it incredibly funny how much stock we put in it, how much of a protected and sheltered thing this very basic urge, need and drive is. For all manner of birth control has made it so that fucking is now a frivolous pursuit of pleasure more than it is a need and drive to procreate. As an aside, I would very much like to state that this does not bother me. Not in the least. The thing is; as odd and weird as it is, turning it into pleasure first and pregnancy second has made it even more protected, even more holy. Despite all our ham-fisted talks about sexual liberation and sexual revolution and what-nots and what-alls, we seem to be more neurotic in regards to sex and sexuality now than we have been for quite some time.

Almost as though one would be inclined to believe that a meaningless and pointless pursuit of immediate pleasure in one-night-stands and topless tinder-dates with no strings attached and no responsibilities lined up poisoned the well some and made for some hell-hath-no-fury-scenarios, where a lover scorned or a lover’s regret the day after a frivolous session of in-the-moment fornication made for feelings that were not shared in kind and a further shaming of male sexuality for doing just as his date did.

Men are terribly irresponsible when having no-strings-attached sex.

Women are not; they are liberated.

And if both man and woman are drunk and have drunken sex, the man is a rapist and the woman is raped. And the world is such a weird and peculiar place that confusion does not even cover it. For sooth, I do fear, sire, that we may have over-complicated matters to the point of complete and utter absurdity! I do fear that we have lost the plot ages back, that we have descended into guttural chaos and base-level desires that are never fulfilled even when we are told that this is what is needed to fulfil it. We are living in a Monty Python sketch, where one absurdity is explained with a higher level of absurdity. It is layers upon layers of absurdity, and I would be laughing my swinging dick and pendulous balls off, were I not quietly weeping in the corner. But I am getting better, I swear. I only break into hysterical fits of crying and babbling three times a week these days.

Anyhow; in those sexual education classes the boys were shamed for the girls not masturbating and not knowing their own bodies. This despite none of us knowing their bodies either, and should we wish to know their bodies we were beasts with only one thing on our minds. Not to mention that the same shame of not knowing a man’s body was not laid in the palms and prickly nipples of the girls. Odd, that. As though men are the ones who are supposed to run the show, from initiating dates to initiating sex. Or begging for it, more like…

And still; wanting sex, as a male, was a horrible thing and wanting sex as a woman was not a horrible thing, but a natural thing. Though the sex wanted by women was an emotional thing and the sex wanted by men was a primal thing, a thing of domination and subjugation. It was a confusing message sent and delivered. Sex was nothing to be ashamed of, yet it was at the very same time something to be deeply ashamed of.

We were told how incredibly complex female sexuality was, and that men would never properly understand it. Of course, the complexity of female sexuality was the complete opposite of male sexuality; simplistic enough to warrant barely a mention in front of the dismal black-board.

And were it mentioned, it was always with the barely-concealed snarl of wild mockery and disgust. This, in turn, rendered every god-damned unwanted erection a source of shame. And unwanted erections in those days of puberty happened once every ten minutes. You could set your bloody clock to it. There was nothing but spontaneous erections and a longing for some privacy and a few minutes to jerk off and be done with it. That is – if the erection came as a result of sexual desires, which it did not always do. Nor does it always do so. This is something lacking in common knowledge, as I understand it. Considering the mangled menagerie of feminist thought-and-action, an erect penis is nothing but sexual and shows nothing but sexual desire in the moment. Even when it is not. Of course; a lack of erection necessarily must mean a lack of sexual interest and something the woman should be insulted by. And the man be ashamed of. Just as he should be ashamed of his erection, he should also be ashamed of his lack of erection. The penis is there for the woman, and that is that. Objectification ho?

This is where sexual education is lacking, in their brow-beating of the male. For spontaneous erections were never mentioned or properly explained. Not as such. Erections meant nothing but the male being ready and willing to go, and that was that. It was a means to an end. For all the god-damned yammering and clamouring and claims that men don’t know shit about women’s bodies, women sure as hell know next-to-nothing about men’s bodies. Evidenced in the absolute lack of knowledge as to how erections function. Or how they do not function, for that matter. For, you know, a man can not be forced to penetrate. If he had an erection, he must have wanted it. This is the argument presented, time and bloody time again, to explain how a man can not be raped by a woman. I had a girlfriend once who honestly believed I could get an erection at will, just as if I were flexing a muscle. She was flabbergasted that this was not the case.

As much as I do believe that any sexual partner ought to know their way around their partner’s body, this is not something that should only apply to men. Yet, here we are, living in a culture where men are shamed for not knowing diddly-squat about the female body by women that do not even know that an erection does not equal sexual desire on part of the man, nor that a lack of erection does not equal a lack of sexual desire. It is far more complex than what these cretins believe.

And I lay a lot of the blame for this on the lack-luster sexual education in schools whose main focus in my day was the deification of female sexuality and the vilification of male sexuality; whose main train of thought was to teach the boys that their natural sexual urges was something to be ashamed of and to teach the girls that theirs was not. And as much as I agree with the latter, it is something that should apply to both or none. There should be no shame in sexuality, be you a man or a woman, there should not be any shame attached to wanting to fuck. Yet there were and there was, as long as it was sent in the direction of the boys.

Which is as evident now as fucking is natural, given the ongoing shaming of all things masculine from the girls and boys who grew up with this message imprinted in their developing minds and personalities and now only parrot the points they never questioned or dared looked behind and beyond, to repeat the mantra and carry on with the shaming and the glorious cuntural revolution of the feminist hive-mind; the breaking down and dismantling of all things masculine. The cloud of shame hung over the heads of the boys for which they must repent all their lives, bend their necks and their heads, kiss her ring and make amends for being such lustful and primitive primates as we are.

And this – this shaming, this perpetual demonizing and vilification of men and of masculinity – is presented as something that is supposed to help boys and to help men grow beyond the confines of traditional masculinity. Which is what, exactly? That depends on the feminist in question and the heat of the moment. But that don’t matter at all, the moment one is able to understand that nature plays more of a part than nurture does in how men act and how men behave, in how women act and how women behave.

This is not to say that nurture does not play a part. Because of course it does. We can not help but be a product of that which surround us as we grow up. We can not help but be infused with the ideas and the lessons we learn. We are a product of our surroundings. To a certain extent.

Yet; to claim that it is only nurture and not nature is to go against basic biology. It is to look at the state of nature, to look at the behaviour of animals and state that humanity is above and beyond that.

The problem of boys and men is not that they are boys and men, is not that they have been told to be boys and to be men. The problem of boys and men is that they are not being told that it is OK for them to be boys and to be men. It is that we are living in a culture that has not a kind word stored away anywhere for boys, for men or for masculinity. We are living in a culture in which we are told and taught that masculinity is something that must be done away with, that it is behaviour that is toxic, that it is learned behaviour that must be dismantled. And in its place the feminine shall thrive. In the guise of something gender-neutral. For feminism have us all shackled and in chains, have infested and infected our schools and our societies to such an extent that their philosophy is considered the norm and the guiding light. By their hands and their hands alone, the masculine shall be dismantled and the gender-neutral take hold. Just a god-damned shame, then, that what they propose to be gender neutral is remarkably feminine and that femininity is supposed to be some sort of saving grace for boys and for men who want nothing but to be free to be boys and to be men just as we fucking are.

Moiret’s book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

DIY or die! A ramble on doing things yourself. (And various other semi-related topics)

This is a guest post from Moiret Allegiere.  He has a great deal to say about our plight as men in today’s insane misandrist world. You can find his blog here.

There is nothing better, in the humble opinion of this sleepless cripple, than the satisfaction of finishing some project or other. This goes for most everyone, I would assume. And it applies to any project one could imagine, from the artistic to the mundane, from the impractical to the practical.

I will focus on the mundane and the practical in this ramble, I think, following on a bit from my piece on hobbies. That is to say, I will try to the best of my abilities, seeing as my current struggle with insomnia leaves me a bit unfocused and weirdly scatterbrained.

I was fairly pleased with the piece I did on hobbies. That I was pleased with it tend to mean that very few enjoyed it. One of those strange quirks of the realm of artistic illusion, I suppose. In this realm, the pleasure of the artist does not necessarily translate to the pleasure of the beholder. The opposite also hold true; when I find myself severely displeased with some artistic project, people tend to enjoy it. It is really strange. Not that it matters all that much.

In some way or other, it evens out. I think it is a fairly funny observation, though.

In the dark days, in the long-ago time, when I still inhabited Facebook I posted a picture of some wooden planters I had built from the leftovers of another project I had been building. My caption for these photos were something like: “I built this using primarily my beard.”

I very much enjoy working with plants, tending to them, watching them grow from seed to fruit and everything involved in this process. I also very much enjoy working with wood, and would do so much more than I currently am doing had I only the room. The picture of these wooden planters were very well received. Particularly by women on my friend-list. This is something I found to be very interesting. Especially so since a few of these women, one who commented in particular, presented themselves as ardent feminists. The feminist in question who happened to comment, commented something along the lines of “Your wife must love your handyman projects!” There is absolutely nothing wrong with this comment, of course.

Quite the contrary.

I found it incredibly interesting, however, that it came from the hands of a feminist, seeing as it is very much gendered stereotyping, is it not? Wife enjoys her husband fixing and building things around the home, while the husband enjoys the wife doing whatever it is a wife traditionally does.

I am given to believe that a lot of the differences in the choices men and women make, as well as the interests of men and women, are driven in no small way by us being differently wired biologically.

There is nothing wrong with this either, of course. Were we only able to accept this tender little factoid instead of assuming some manner of discrimination every single time these different choices and priorities, strengths and weaknesses present themselves as differences of outcome. That is to say: were we only to accept, cherish and nurture these differences for what they are instead of fighting against them at every turn.

This is not to say that one should accept every difference as a rule, nor is it to say that you either have to do this or you have to do that, are you a man or a woman. I am not a fan of rigidly enforced social rules, norms and regulations as a general rule. With exceptions, of course.

What I mean to say is that people should be free to do with their lives as they wish to do with their lives, be they male or female. That, whether people chose a traditional path or not, it should be accepted as the choice of that person and that person alone. Of course, in regards to relationships, it should be accepted as the choice of that couple or that family. It is not the place of anyone else to force someone to do something they do not wish to do. And it does not reflect well on any movement when a movement attempts to tell someone that their choices are the wrong choices. As feminism is known to do, should a woman chose something particularly traditional – or something that she wishes to do that falls outside the very narrow realm of accepted professions for a woman as feminism sees it.

Which brings me to my point in regards to the comment left by the feminist – whom I know to be a feminist, because she stated as much quite a few times. As feminists are also known to do. That point being: at the moment I showed some manner of practical ability, some manner of doing and making, the distaste feminism usually shows in regards to the traditionally masculine and the traditionally feminine – man provides and protects, woman receives and is protected (in excruciatingly simple terms – I am aware that this dynamic is far more complex than this) – evaporated and gave room for what I would dare say is some manner of admiration. And that is admiration for traditionally masculine traits, in essence: protect and provide. There is nothing wrong with this admiration. Nor is there anything wrong that men lean towards this, or take pride and enjoyment in the admiration gained from doing things of this nature. Or take pride in these kinds of projects as they are, for that matter.

This sort of behaviour from the feminist, this small and – on the surface – insignificant thing did actually significantly alter my way of thinking where gender and feminism is concerned. It fixed, cemented and set in stone my conviction that people refer to themselves as feminists by default because they have been spoon-fed this hideous lie that it is the only force working towards equality between the sexes, and that is all that it is. So why not label oneself a feminist? It’s only muh equality, ya know.

But, yeah, my scatterbrain scattered its seeds and took me in a different direction yet again. I’ll do my best to get back on track. It was the pleasures of doing things yourself I wanted to ramble about a bit, and that strange sensation of fulfilment and pride that comes from being able to take care of oneself and whatever family one may have through doing so. From small projects to big projects, it does not really matter – the satisfaction remains the same. It does, in no small way, make one feel a bit manly, a bit masculine. And this is a good thing. That feel-good testosterone fuelling that toxic and fragile masculinity; that horrible urge to protect and to provide and to be able to do things on ones own. Terrible. Just terrible.

I am of the humble opinion that doing things yourself is the best course of action to take for most things – provided one has the know-how to do so. Or the ability to learn how to do so. And most things, I believe, one can learn for oneself.

Granted, this DIY-ethos of mine may very well have trickled down from the first time punk-rock filled my soul and body with all its wondrous tricks and trance-inducing rage and riot against the establishment.

What better way to tell the establishment to fuck off than participate as little as possible in the well-trodden paths; that is to say: do as much as possible yourself and be self-reliant, self-sufficient and self-fulfilled, needing little help from the established powers-that-be and any authority left therein? Which, in the end, may very well be a naturally well-established path for men to take. Interesting, is it not?

For full disclosure – I am receiving disability from the government for my severe chronic illness.

So I am not self-reliant in any financial way.

Which is a bother and a burden to me and to my toxic and fragile masculine pride (trademarked). My main wish, or hope, or goal, if you will, is to somehow manage to make enough money on my art and writings to be able to make a living off it. I am absolutely certain that it will never be enough to live some high-and-mighty life of overabundance. But a modest living is within the realms of possibility. Through hard work and sacrifice. And, rest assured, this art and writing I do requires a lot of hard work and even more sacrifice. I have lost friends and family due to the topics I have chosen to write about, and this is no fun.

No fun at all.

No matter how much it hurts, it will be worth it in the long run, as the topics I chose to write about are incredibly important to write about, talk about and learn about. And speaking honestly is good for the self. My choices were to write honestly on these topics, or succumb to clinical insanity from bottling all these thoughts, speculations and knowledge within.

No good fight is fought or won without sacrifice. And the sacrifice is most often severe and most definitely personal.

And were I not entangled and entwined in all this god-damned gender-stuff, all this strange and peculiar culture-war-stuff, I would be writing far more on various DIY-projects. With home-brewing and plants being my main focus, as those two are what gives me the most pleasure and consumes most of my time where DIY-stuff is concerned. With woodworking and carpentry most likely being a close second, the moment I get enough space to really start going to town on projects of that nature. In a couple of years, we will be buying a small farmstead. There will be room enough then. Room to breathe, to move around. Not infected by the inevitable stress and insufferable horror of city-living.

Raising a plant from seed to fruit and then using this fruit in various home-brewed concoctions that will be stored and matured for a year, in order that it is ready to be enjoyed when next years batch is being made is one of the greatest of small pleasures in my life. Of course; foraging plays a part in this, and picking plants in the wild for use in home-brewing or in teas or for food or whatever is a fantastic endeavour to embark upon. There is so much growing out there in the wild ready to pick and use in whichever way one would like that it boggles the mind that so few actually do things of that nature. In nature. And it is done by oneself. By hand. Bit by bit and piece by piece; projects that require patience and knowledge.

Patience being one of those things that seem to be dwindling alongside our attention-spans as our civilization descends ever more into the void of immediate gratification, into the nether realms of instantaneous satisfaction in place of delayed gratification. Fuelled, of course, in no small way by the dopamine-addictions shot into the central nervous system by social media, the tyranny of the stopwatch and various similar maladies of the modern era.

Long-term projects, projects that are determined by, and reliant on, the seasons is a great way to train patience, to cultivate patience as a virtue, to teach oneself to delay gratification and push away the press and desire for immediate satisfaction. Which of course, in itself, is a long term project. For if one has first fallen into the trap and succumbed to the allure of social media likes, clicks, shares and various harbingers of immediate joy and happiness-boosts, the path away from it is long and easy to stray from.

Patience is absolutely one of those virtues which I find to be the most important and the most lacking in society as it stands today, both on an individual level and on a societal level with the immediate and the instantaneous taking precedence, becoming more important than long-term plans and goals.

And here I speak from experience.

For some years back, in the throes of medicinally induced psychosis, I fell into the claptrap of social media addiction myself – completely and utterly sleepless and with faulty wiring in my brain making me erratic, I sough solace in the immediate and ultimately hollow boost of happiness and comfort earned from virtual clicks and likes gathered from social media nonsense. It brought nothing but further despair, making me dig the grave for my shattered glass-sanity ever deeper and, more like than not, prolonged the psychosis and made the path toward stability and sanity, healing and functionality a longer and more winding path. There is neither rest nor solace to be found in social media. The technology itself is neither good nor bad, of course. It is as technology is – completely neutral and dependent upon those that wield the tools and how they act and behave. It is a damned shame, then, that people tend to not know how to use their tools. Or their brains. Because the brain is most definitely a tool that can be sharpened and put to good use, were people only able to let go of the external world and the perceived happiness it brings for a little while to seek solace and happiness within, through meditation and deep introspection. And solitude. People, by and large, tend to gather their happiness from the input of other people. And only that, social pack-animals that we are. We are scared of solitude. This neglects the other, far more permanent and important happiness, which is finding solace and comfort in oneself, being safe and secure in who one is and – hacky as it well may sound – knowing oneself completely.

This also includes knowing ones abilities and what one is able to do. Or not able to do. Which of course translates into various DIY-projects. Having the strength, the belief in oneself that one will be able to complete the task at hand is not necessarily something that comes easily and fluently. In particular in these days, where mockery is thrown about at all things traditionally considered masculine.

I don’t think it is too much of a stretch of the imagination to imagine that traditionally masculine tasks, tools, abilities and so forth and so on is not something young men subjected to the ridicule of all things masculine on a daily basis cultivate all that easily. It is far easier to throw the traditionally masculine aside, to neglect and forget it as some shameful relic of the past than it is to cultivate it. That is to say – far easier to do on a superficial level. On a deeper level of consciousness, however, I fear that it is not all that easy. For the urges, the drive, the longing for the – for lack of a more fitting word – divine will still be there, festering in the subconscious, gnawing and biting and burning for wanting to come out and play, to be unfolded as the natural part of himself that it truly is. And all this and all that and all of the other which he has been told and taught as the gospel according to the feminist hive-mind is wrong and is bad and is poor within him lies neglected and dying for lack of nurture and sustenance, for shame and ridicule and all the clucking of the hive-mind, the buzz and the drone.

This becomes, of course, particularly confusing when he is told one thing and then shown the other. That is: the traditional expectations is still very much alive and well where men are concerned, enforced and rigidly expected by women he may wish to date and the society which surround him. Chivalry is expected. He shall still provide and he shall still protect, even as he is shamed for doing just that. He shall not, however, expect anything in return where the traditional gender-roles are concerned. He shall be enslaved to the role which he is shamed for wanting to fulfil. And she shall be free to do whatever, lest he be labelled a foul misogynist and abuser of his partner or prospective mate.

Should you be interested in some elaboration on these ideas, I delve into it in some rambling depth in my piece: ”What makes a man suicide? Rambling on traditional expectations and Suicide.”, which you can find on my blog or on YouTube or – preferably—BitChute.

I am aware that it may seem like a bit of a stretch, going from DIY to traditional expectations and shaming of all things masculine. The way I see it, it is interconnected and intertwined, which I think the comment on Facebook which I mentioned above points to directly. For feminism claims the eradication of traditional gender-what-cha-ma-call-its whilst expecting, and in no small way celebrating, the traditionally masculine… when it benefits women, and only then. Which, of course, protect and provide does. Now, obviously, a small planter built and small plants grown is not the biggest example of protect and provide. It still is an example, though, as I showcased my ability to build something that would hold something that would provide my family with food, even if it was not much food. And even if it was used for home-brewing. Home-brewing is, at the heart of it, only a week or two of fermentation removed from a reliable source of food.

And there is the thing of it, in my mind – men are drawn to these kinds of practical projects, in no small way due to their biological drive and innate desire to protect and to provide. This is not to say that men don’t do these things solely for themselves or merely for the pure enjoyment of it. That is not at all what I am speculating.

What I am speculating is that this drive to do things for oneself is a desire firmly rooted and embedded in the biology of men, a way to show and to prove that they are prime examples of their species, much like the Bowerbird and the nests he builds to impress and attract a mate. (Which is something of the most astonishing beauty; more amazing than I believe I have ever seen before.) We are really not as far separated from animals and from nature as we believe ourselves to be. Evidently so, if one but opens ones eyes and watches the behaviour of most animals and compare that with the behaviour of humanity at large. Particularly when attracting a mate. This goes for both men and women. We showcase our strengths based on what we know, deep down on a biological, reptilian-brain level, that any potential mate would desire. And we hide our flaws and weaknesses based on the same. We accentuate strength, beauty, youth, fertility, self-reliance, etc. etc. etc. in the most primitive, the most primal manner. Whilst subduing and hiding weaknesses, various faults and flaws, etc. etc. etc.

Simply put; some of the few things that separate us from the rest of the animal-kingdom is our intellect – which, more often than not, creates three new problems for every solution – and our nebulous, vapourwave-like civilizations and societies that are, as these things go, here in a flash and gone in an instant. It is built and it falls to ruin. And we believe that we have learned something the next time we rebuild. Then the process repeats.

All the while we believe ourselves separated from and, ultimately, superior to animals and to nature, never realizing that we are of the same thing.

All the while, we take things so incredibly serious, so absurdly seriously in fact that we feel some strange and peculiar need to categorize everything, to fit everything within neatly labelled boxes of this or of that. And we have the gall, the absurd arrogance to believe that smaller and smaller subcategories will fix all our problems when it, in reality, only creates more problems. For every category, every simple label and neat little box need its own sub-categories, need its own neat little labels that need their own and need their own, and so forth and so on. And every label, every category, every nefarious little box artificially creates and inflates a problem that must be solved through more labels and subcategories within subcategories.

So men doing what men tend to do, and women doing what women tend to do in general need their own labels, their own categories. And these need their own, and those need their own. On and on and on. And that must be fixed and mended in some way, because we are just as opposed to labels and categories for the simplicity that they bring as we are drawn towards them for the simplicity that they bring.

And all this instead of accepting and cherishing things the way that they are; instead of going with the flow of nature, the stream of time, the way of things as things are. Instead of accepting and celebrating, we slice, split and divide to infinity and beyond. We overcomplicate where we should just accept. Then we fight what we have made overly complicated, then we complain that things are so complicated, failing to realize that the only reason things are so complicated is because we made them so complicated in the first place.

And the solution is simple. Let people do as people do. Let people live as people wish to live. Go with what is natural. Don’t shame masculine behaviour in men. Don’t shame feminine behaviour in women. For that is the natural flow-and-glow of things; that is the river, the wind, the Tao, if you wish. Conversely – do not shame feminine behaviour in men or masculine behaviour in women. A real man does exactly what the fuck he wants. And so does a real woman. If that is traditional or not, who the fuck has any right to meddle? Or to care? Life is far too short for these small petty grievances, far too short to let it be bogged down by fighting things that come natural, by splitting, dividing, sub-dividing and so forth and so on. For, in the end, it does nothing but create more complication, more conflict, more ridiculously unnecessary time wasted that could be spent more wisely on something more constructive than fighting what is, in essence, biology and nature.

We tend to do as we tend to do, which is to say that we tend to do what we are wired to do. The differences between the sexes are evident in all animals. And humanity is no exception. We have just grown so smart that we have allowed ourselves to become arrogant in our proclaimed cleverness to the point of complete and utter stupidity.

This is not to say that one should accept everything from everyone based solely on the argument that “it is my nature that drives me to this destructive behaviour”. Of course not. That would be absolutely ridiculous. We are responsible for our own behaviours, in the end. And that includes how we treat others – man, woman and animal alike. We have grown clever enough to not run on pure instinct. This does not, however, mean that the instincts are not there. Ultimately, the main purpose of any biological organism is to reproduce before they die. Which means that, on a deeply subconscious level, most of what we do is done to attract a mate of the opposite sex.

And needlessly complicating matters does nothing but complicate matters needlessly. If there is one thing that you can count on humanity to do, it is to complicate matters to the point of absolute ridiculousness.

Just as I have done in this ramble.

God damn it.

Moiret’s Book, Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Lies and Slander in the Domestic Violence Industrial Complex:

Illustration: “Healing”, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

This is a guest post from Moiret Allegiere.  He has a great deal to say about our plight as men in today’s insane misandrist world. You can find his blog here.

Stumbling through the dark corners of the internet one fell morning, attempting to do research on the subject of domestic violence interspersed now and then with one of my dogs barking at some odd happening outside every two minutes, I crawled through the muddiest sludge of the world wide wonder-web to exhume this piece of preposterous writing: https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=2790940 .

Within this piece of writing, aptly titled: The Feminist Case for Acknowledging Women’s Acts of Violence, we find clear and concise evidence in the form of them admitting it that the feminist movement, or the women’s movement or whatever label one wishes to ascribe to it, built the domestic violence movement upon lies at worst and blatant misrepresentations at best. Of course, this being a feminist movement it goes without saying that the entirety of their hogwashed bullshittery is based upon either outright lies or snivelling misrepresentations of clear facts presented with the most serpentine of forked tongues, quivering lips and trembling forms, saying in a childlike voice designed to mimic the most awesome form of Neoteny: Please, I am such a frail and powerless woman – help me, big strong man whose strength and protection I don’t need but will manipulate at want when I need it. Even if I don’t need it, really.

I am not going to divulge the information within this incredibly illuminating piece of writing in great depth or detail in this particular ramble. I think this fantastic piece deserves a ramble all on its own, to go through it in such depths as I am capable of, being neither an academic nor a scholar. Now, being an academic clearly doesn’t mean much in this terrible post-apocalyptic haze of the current year. This should be self-evident by the sluggish beasts residing within the overcrowded halls of academia. So: rather than delving into this paper in depth here and now, I will take a look at a few proper studies on intimate partner violence and see how the data contained therein correspond to this amazing evidence of feminist skewed statistics and lies most worthy of the immense judgement and subsequent thunder of our grand societal ban-hammer.

Because this piece of writing, gentlemen and ladies, is of such incredible importance to understand the way our ramshackle societies view instances of intimate partner violence through the black and white, tried, true and incredibly faulty lens of male perpetrators and female victims that I can hardly contain my glee in stumbling across it. Even if I read it with a certain anger boiling in my throat, gut and groin. In the pages of this tome of inadvisedly applied “knowledge”, it becomes painfully clear that the feminist movement combined with the domestic violence movement cares not in the least for the victims of domestic violence, be they male or female. It becomes evident – by the constant reference to the “movement” – that it is the feminist movement that matters, the women’s movement. Not facts, not truth, not reason and not the individual victims of intimate partner violence. The movement above all.

The serpent cult is alive and well.

…And only the cult matter in the grand scheme and schism of things.

It should have been common knowledge from the 1970’s at least that intimate partner violence is not a gendered issue. Once again, I would like to refer to the work of that fabulous Loving Grandmother to Us All, Erin Pizzey and her tremendous work in regards to family violence. I recommend – once again – that everyone read her story, listen to her speeches and marvel at the treatment she received at the hands of irate feminists who had an agenda to push that was driven not by any concerns for victims of domestic violence, but by a concern for their own movement, their own dogma and their own hydra-headed serpent god of false tongues and venomous fangs. She concluded, already back then, that intimate partner violence was reciprocal in most cases, built on escalation and a pattern of abuse that was generational from both sides of the dysfunctional family.

She quickly learned that the women in her shelters were just as, if not more, violent than the men from whom they fled. And so saw fit to build a shelter for abused men as well, for which she was disowned by her feminist cohorts, harassed and harangued and bullied until she had to flee the country.

Obviously, this is a condensed version of the story.

All this came to be merely because she wished to actually help those who suffered instead of pushing an agenda that was as blatantly false as it was completely monochrome in its approach to the problem.

Women are angels and saints and men are the devils lurking at the outskirts of our civilization, ready, at a moments notice, to wreak bloody havoc on all that we hold dear. That is to say: on all that women hold dear. For, should we believe the feminist dogma, men can not hold anything dear but terror, tyranny, violence, beer and rape. Preferably at the same time.

Now, closing in on fifty years later, researchers are attempting to view the problem of intimate partner violence through new and fresh lenses. Gazing at it, as it were, from a vantage point not driven by ideology and subjective opinion, but on facts and objective observations.

Imagine now, if the powers that be had listened to Erin Pizzey when she first began speaking truthfully and honestly on certain matters having to do with dysfunctional family matters. Should-haves, would-haves and could-haves are not great tools for intellectual quests, I will have to agree. And resentment and bitterness helps little in furthering anything. But this fraud and sham of a movement has done such tremendous damage where intimate partner violence is concerned that I can not help it. This new research is not anything new. Not as such. And that angers my blood and boils my brain, slowly reducing it to snark and frustration, anger and resentment.

Think of what could have been done to help both male and female victims, as well as their children. Imagine how much work could have been laid down to stop the generational cycle of abuse – to break the vicious circle of replaying past traumas in ones own family of origin.

Instead, the domestic violence movement saw fit to ensnare society within its tangled web of feminist patriarchy-theory and gibbering nonsense, painting men as the perpetrators and axe-wielding maniacs of immense power and violence. That it was the subjugation of women at the hands of both men and the state that caused intimate partner violence, and that it was men and only men who were violent both within and without the family, given the authority to do so by the nebulous and never-seen forces of the tyrannical patriarchy, the reptilian illuminati-annunaki of the feminist tin-foil-hat wearing swashbucklers of truth and glory filtered through mass-hysteria and quaint quantities of hysterical ovary-acting worthy of a hysterectomy or two.

Driven now by a longing for facts and for the feminist nonsense-mongers to remove their stranglehold on the discourse where intimate partner violence is concerned, we – as a society – need to wipe our faultily prescribed myopic lenses and put actual prescription glasses in place to view these dysfunctional family matters in an objective light, not tainted by ideologues who care for the movement and the goals of the movement, replacing the needs of the actual victims and sufferers in the process.

And so, new research floats to the top of the stagnant pool that has been the discourse for decades. From the septic tank of feminist-infused fuckery that has dominated the discourse, rises a noxious gas that may now be lit aflame and blow the whole thing up where the way we view family violence is concerned.

For: what should matter – what should always have mattered – is lending help to the individual victims first and foremost, disregarding the gendered view that feminism has put in place. Which they so clearly admit to have put in place. Secondly, the root cause of family violence should be understood so that the cycle of abuse may be broken. In order to understand it, one has to admit to and understand what both Warren Farrel and Erin Pizzey have been saying for decades; that damaged people damage people, and gender be damned. Gender should not factor into it. Especially not in these societies which we inhabit in which the claim is that gender never matters. Except when it does, of course. And when it does, it is always when it may in some way, shape or form supposedly help women. It is tempting to say that the root causes should be the first thing that matters. But that would then be done without lending help to individual victims in their immediate need. By lending help to the individual first and foremost, the root cause may be discovered and removed as one would remove a tumour.

It becomes glaringly obvious that their “containment” as they put it in the first paper linked, of female offenders and male victims has done a great disservice, not only to the men who have fallen victim to intimate partner violence, but to any-and-all attempt to grab the serpent by its tail and so refuse it to become the Ourobouros, perpetuating its cycle of abuse through generations of families uncounted. By pushing to remove female offenders, they have willingly allowed the snake to go uncaught. They have driven wedges ever further into the fabrics of our societies, into the trust and co-operation between men and women and sat fire to the entirety of the family dynamic. By their own admittance, they have neglected to catch the serpent, they have willingly destroyed the nuclear family and given birth to an industrial complex known vaguely as the domestic violence movement in which male victims – as we shall see soon enough – are not believed, are shunned, ridiculed, often arrested in place of their abuser and removed from their own home. For being beat and abused by their spouse.

All in the name of “equality”; that fantastic term that means everything and nothing all at once, depending upon the view of the feminist at the moment, depending on the position of the moon, depending on whether or not Uranus is aligned with the swinging cock of Mars to be sodomized at a moments notice and so forth and so on.

In the feminist dictionary, words do not mean what you think they mean. They change and they alter and they evolve all the time within the framework of their ideology, as whimsical and fluctuating as anything ever could be. And so, the joke lies there and I must use it: “At the flimsy will and whim of a woman”.

Thank you.

I’ll be here all week.

These are the jokes, people!

***

Looking on another study now, and of course I need to put in an addendum here – I am always a bit careful when looking at studies like this, given that I am not an academic and as such not all that versed in traversing these kinds of studies – this study is titled Differences in Frequency of Violence and Reported Injury Between Relationships With Reciprocal and Nonreciprocal Intimate Partner Violence. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1854883/ .

In this study, they analysed data on young adults aged 18-28 years in the US. The results showed that almost 24% of all relationships they looked at had some violence. Just about half of these were cases of reciprocal violence. In cases were the violence was not reciprocal women were the perpetrators in more than 70% of the cases. That is quite a lot, if I am to be honest. More than the feminist hive-mind and various do-goodie virtue-signallers would ever admit to. This does not matter to these people, though, as they will hold forth as arguments that this does not matter due to the fact that male perpetrators are more likely to inflict injury than are female perpetrators. If I understood the study properly, however, instances of reciprocal violence was more likely to result in actual injury than were instances of non-reciprocal violence.

This was found to be regardless of the gender of the perpetrator. I found this to be very interesting when taking into consideration that the study also tell us that “Reciprocity was associated with more frequent violence among women”. From my understanding of this quote, women were the instigators more often than men in cases of reciprocal violence. Thus leading the men therein to reply in kind. Given the greater muscle-mass and bone density of men in general, and the lesser muscle-mass and bone density of women in general, I do not find it all that surprising that women suffer injuries more in cases of reciprocal violence. It would, perhaps, be a good idea to not attempt to beat someone bigger and stronger than oneself.

Understanding that boys and men have been told since time immemorial that they should never – ever – hit a girl or a woman, no matter the circumstances, it is little wonder that the sympathies of society at large go to the woman in these scenarios, never-minding that she may very well have been the instigator. I think it would be prudent to also keep in mind the probability that people in these kinds of relationships where reciprocal violence occur are more than likely damaged people who keep replaying the same scenarios time and again, drawn to each other by a kind of mutual and subconscious desire for destruction and self-destruction, feeding into the generational cycle of abuse from ages past. Re-playing what they learned at the hands and feet of parents for all eternity. I can not imagine a worse doom than this.

The study also tell us that “the percentage of relationships in which there was reciprocal partner violence ranged from 45% to 72%”. Further evidence, then, that reciprocal violence in highly dysfunctional relationships and families is the norm more than it is not. Kinda ruins the pictures we have been painted and presented for ages now of the stereotypical wife-beating man; a drunkard and a brute with violence encoded in his DNA, allowed by both society and the patriarchy, weird deep-state shadow government that it is. A faulty image handcrafted by feminist ideologues whose interests and passions are to maintain this stereotype more than it is to solve the problem. Because solving the problem would mean that they would have to admit – as they have done in the first paper linked – that women are also violent, that men are also victims, and that violent relationships are more often than not a two-way street where there is no clear victim/perpetrator dynamic to be used in furthering an agenda.

And the agenda is also something they would then have to admit to; burying facts for sake of their ideological convenience and the advancement of the movement, the movement being, at the moment, in a state of siege as more and more people are questioning the societal narrative which we have been spoon-fed for decades; their toxin forced down our throats and injected into our veins from powerful institutions of education, mass-media and more.

This state of siege, I assume, is the main cause and reason for the first paper linked – the fear of loosing their stranglehold on the conversation, the debate and the topic forcing them to change tactics so as not to be shown as the bigoted and ideologically possessed and blinded serpents that they are.

There is this radical notion that has been with me, you see, part of my world-view for all my life, based as much on personal observations as it is on objective analysis, that both men and women are capable of tremendous good as well as tremendous bad. That is to say: women are just as capable as men. And men are just as capable as women. For good. And for evil. This goes in stark opposition to the dominant cultural narrative of our societal psychosis – that men are evil and women are good by default. An awfully traditional view of things, one would have to admit.

The study further states that “In fact, men in relationships with reciprocal violence were reportedly injured more often (25.2%) than were women in relationships with non-reciprocal violence (20%); this is important as violence perpetrated by women is often seen as not serious.”

Gee Whiz! I wonder why it is not seen as serious. Could it possibly be due to the massive influence from the feminist movement in regards to this, I wonder, I ponder, I think and I consider as I sip my coffee and listen to the soothing blast beats and throaty screeching of black metal of the foulest and meanest sort? Note also, that I take my coffee as black and soulless as my metal. It helps with the anger, releases the venom and soothes the mind something fierce. It also wires me up magnificently.

…Could this possibly also have something to do with the gynocentric nature of our species, wherein women are to be protected and as such are given excuses and quite a bit of leeway in regards to the abuse they may inflict upon their spouse and their children? It is a meme at this point, but I think it wise to repeat it here: women’s act of violence prompts us to discuss matters of mental health. And it prompts us to manufacture excuses. Such as that she was abused, either as a child by her father or by her spouse, which forced her to carry out her acts of abuse and violence. Men’s violence, on the other hand, prompts us to demonize all men, telling all men that they need to take responsibility for ending this, starting with looking at themselves in the mirror. It also sparks discussions on toxic masculinity and other such nonsense. When men are violent, it is because they are men. When women are violent, it is either because of men or because of mental health issues, urging us to feel sympathy for her and give her understanding.

What a beautiful shell of a world we inhabit. The post-apocalyptic wasteland is nothing like what I was lead to believe through the movies I grew up on.

Were I not cautiously optimistic, I would have turned into a raging misanthrope by this point in my life. Better to channel that rage not unto humanity as a whole, but onto ideologies that purposefully and cleverly have taken control of the discourse, have tied a noose around the necks of our societies and our civilization, have swarmed their way into our collective consciousness as the truth-speakers, the enlightened and empathetic ones seeking only to establish gender equality, despite proven to be filthy, rotten, tongue-tied-and-twisted liars time and again.

I think it wise to end this part of the ramble with another quote from the study in question, which makes it easy for me to segway into the next segment of my incessant rambling: “Regarding reporting biases, there has been much discussion of whether there are differences in reported IPV by the gender of the reporter. A meta-analysis of the reliability of the conflict tactics scale concluded that there is evidence of under-reporting by both genders, and that under-reporting may be greater for men.”

Small wonder, that, as men are not believed more often than not. Small wonder, that, when men are ridiculed by the forces supposedly put in place to help victims of domestic violence. Of course, in light of the glorious feminist revolution, victims of domestic violence automatically mean “women”. As such, close-to all resources available are merely there for female victims. This based on the false belief that only men are violent, only women are victims, for ever and ever, hail Dworkin, praise feminism, eternal glory be to the collective, amen.

The last study to gaze upon is also the one I think is of the most interest. It is titled “The Help-seeking Experiences of Men Who Sustain Intimate Partner Violence: An Overlooked Population and Implications for Practice” and can be found here: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3175099/ .

As one would assume, given the title of the study, it looks on the experiences of men when seeking help because of domestic violence. Unsurprising to any who have delved into the weird and wacky post-red-pill world, but probably surprising, bordering on unbelievable to any who have not, the study show that men experience barriers when calling domestic violence hotlines. It contains some very interesting quotes from men who have been foolish enough to attempt to seek help and understanding from the resources available. I will look mainly on their quotes, as the stories of men who suffer intimate partner violence are so often neglected and never told.

Also – I would like to make it clear that I do not use the word “foolish” lightly. Nor do I use it as a slur against the men who attempted to seek help from the resources available. I use it to define – to underline – the severity of the issue. I use the word “foolish” for the simple reason that, as the world and the web in which it is ensnared stand, it is a foolish and futile endeavour. This is due to the domestic violence industry being so tainted, so poisoned, by the might of the feminist industrial complex that one would be hard-pressed to find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy this side of the good part of Star Wars. As this quote from a man contacting a domestic violence agency would attest to:

They didn’t really listen to what I said. They assumed that all abusers are men and said that I must accept that I was the abuser. They ridiculed me for not leaving my wife, ignoring the issues about what I would need to do to protect my 6 children and care for them.

…but it is not about hating, shaming or blaming men, you must understand. It is all to do with equal treatment of the genders, as the feminist furies would have you believe, with all their piss-pottery and slack-jawed yodelling. Because those who hate men are not real feminists, ya know. And they don’t like sugar on their porridge, either. Strange, then, that these feminists who are not the real feminists are the ones who have decided the rules and law of the land where the mistreatment of male victims of intimate partner violence are concerned. The not real feminists, apparently, are the ones in control of the movement, are the ones who control the discourse, change the laws, neglect male victims and their children and do nothing but further the narrative that women can do no bad and men can do no good. The real feminists, however, are the ones that do not do this, the ones who do not wield any power or influence within the movement which they subscribe to. The leaders of the movement are not real feminists. The ones who have laid the foundations for the movement and steered us all into these days of apocalyptic madness and rampant misandry enforced by law are not the real feminists.

And Hitlerism, you must understand, is not real national socialism. Real national socialism is something quite different. And on and on the circle goes. Where it ends, no-one knows. Nor where it begins.

I am given to understand that there exist no real feminists. Because this is the excuse whenever these hateful, bigoted purveyors of nonsense and neglect parade their hatred of all things male and masculine around town; that they are not real feminists. And when the leaders of a movement are not real adherents to a movement, it is safe to assume that there exist no real feminists, and that it is all a washbasin filled with toxic waste, vaginal sludge and phlegm.

It is fucking nasty, is what I am getting at.

Time and again, these excuses pop up. And people believe it, all the fucking time, people believe it. That the leaders of the movement – the movers and shakers of the law of the land – the ones implementing all manner of vile treatment of men and preferential treatment for women based on naught but sex – are but a vocal minority, a loud-mouthed gangrenous few who do nothing and accomplish nothing and are thusly of little consequence to the movement as a whole, despite the fact that these trademarked not real feminists are the ones responsible for male victims of intimate partner violence, as well as their children, not only not being believed, but not receiving help at the hands of the plentiful resources available to victims of intimate partner violence. Given that the real victims, ya know, are women and women only. But no – that is not real feminism. They just wield all the power and influence in the name of holy feminism and its wriggling, spineless serpent-goddess. And those who are supposedly real feminists do nothing to stop these so-called fake feminists. How very weird.

You know what?

I don’t often say this, but I will make an exception.

Fuck you!

Fuck you right in the ear and the nostrils with a barbwire-dildo laced with ferret-piss and honey, covered in angry ants!

This work shows that men often experience barriers when seeking help when calling domestic violence hotlines, for instance, men who sustained all types of IPV report that the hotline workers say that they only help women, infer or explicitly state that the men must be the actual instigators of the violence, or ridicule them. Male help-seekers also report that hotlines will sometimes refer them to batterers’ programs. Some men have reported that when they call the police during an incident in which their female partners are violent, the police sometimes fail to respond. Other men reported being ridiculed by the police or being incorrectly arrested as the primary aggressor. Within the judicial system, some men who sustained IPV reported experiencing gender-stereotyped treatment. Even with apparent corroborating evidence that their female partners were violent and that the help-seekers were not, they reportedly lost custody of their children, were blocked from seeing their children, and were falsely accused by their partners of IPV and abusing their children. According to some, the burden of proof for male IPV victims may be especially high.

Now, colour me prickly surprised and oddly titillated – could it really be? Well, yes, of course it could really be. The most infuriating bother of it all is that feminists will go out of their way to claim that this treatment is the fault of men, of toxic masculinity and of the patriarchy and that feminism is the force needed to fix it. This despite them being the reason for this sad state of affairs in the first place. At least now we have an admittance from their own filthy and bloodstained hands that they have knowingly “contained” – their word – instances of male victims and female perpetrators, so one would be inclined to believe that this excuse would no longer work.

Yet, it will still work.

It will still be presented as being the fault of men. Whilst in actuality being a combination of the succubi forces of feminism and the gynocentric nature of our species designing a cultural cutlery narrative that women are victims, even when women are the perpetrators. I can imagine no harsher punishment – no harsher and more foul treatment – than being arrested for being assaulted by ones partner, adding insult to injury one snakelike slither at a time, with the godawful feminist dogma whispering in his ear that this is the fault of men and of himself by extension.

A few quotes from the paper, which I think is of interest:

They offered to listen if I wanted to recount what had happened, but indicated that no support services were available”.

I was mostly just doing research after the occurrence to find out what I should do. I found mostly female help sites and was turned down by several so I gave up.

In regards to law involvement:

They determined she was the aggressor but said since I was a man it was silly to arrest her.”

Told me to get her help. Told me to spend the night in a hotel.”

They saw me as a large male and… took her side. I was at the hospital with bruising and burned eyes from hot coffee thrown in them. They didn’t believe that she did this… and refused to arrest her… The next incidence… the police… saw me bleeding they charged her with felony DV, but later dropped it to misdemeanour assault because we are not married and do not live together.”

Well, now, ain’t that interesting in light of the first paper linked? I would dare say that in the line of duty, neglect of the male is right there up front and centre for all the world to see, were they only willing to do so. Clearly, it is incredibly difficult to see after decades of feminist lobbying and implementations – or alterations – of law made to define Domestic Violence in a light spun neatly by the web of feminist dogma, such as the Duluth-model for dealing with domestic violence. But more on that later, as I keep saying whenever I bring it up. I think – quite simply – that it deserves a ramble all on its lonesome.

When all things are placed within the framework of an ideology that presumes women to be the oppressed and men to be the oppressors, violence can only ever go one way. And that way is down from the top – from man to woman. Women who are violent against their male partners are thus given leeway for her supposedly being oppressed for being female and nothing but. The domestic violence industry has handcrafted this fairytale on feminist insistence, where the big bad wolf is the man and everything done to fight the big bad wolf is of the good, even when that means a man being arrested for his horrible crime of being assaulted.

And so, the girl cried “Wolf”.

Because he must have done something to her that caused her to lash out at him. Because the story told and the image presented for decades has been one in which women are never the main perpetrators, nor the first instigators. It has been presented as being so simple, so lacking in nuance as to be black and white; that is the ever-popular Men Bad – Women Good. I know I repeat this often. This point needs to be hammered home with all the persistence and subtlety of a rampant AK-47 in the hands of a drugged-out-of-his-mind chimpanzee.

When faced with this – that male victims are arrested – the feminist hive-mind does, in my admittedly anecdotal experience one of two things. They defend the woman, stating that he must have done something. Or they claim – as they always do – that this is the fault of the patriarchy for viewing women as weak and helpless, forgetting for convenience the fact that all this is the fault of feminist lobbying. That this is the fault of feminism is made evident – clear and bright as the dawning of a new day – when looking at the first paper linked, or looking at the interview with foul and filthy Katherine Spillar in the documentary the Red Pill, wherein she states that “it is not girls beating up on boys, it is boys beating up on girls” and that “Domestic Violence” is nothing but a “clean-up word for wife-beating.” Imagine my bedazzled shock!

If this is not neglecting male victims and containing female perpetrators for the movement and the ideology and nothing but that, I have no idea what is.

This does not matter much, however, within a culture that is so decided upon viewing women as permanent victims of the tyranny of men that we willingly ignore all facts to the contrary of the cultural narrative. And that is a narrative that has been pushed and prodded and presented as absolute fact for decades, despite being at the best falsely presented statistics, and at the worst downright lies.

The worst part – to my eyes at least – is not the narrative being presented of only men being perpetrators and only women being victims. The worst part of it all is that this one-sided narrative, this bitterly unnuanced view of things, stand directly in the path, blocking what would be the best attempt at remedying the problem. And that is looking at the core reason for violence, which seems to be linked intimately with family of origin issues.

That is to say – the sins of the father will be visited upon the son. Adding, of course, that the sins of the mother and father both will be visited upon the son and the daughter both, in equal measure. Doomed to repetition is the generational cycle of abuse.

For are not our behaviours – our patterns of behaviour in adult life very much a reflection of that of our parents, be they our mothers or our fathers? Being able to see this pattern – this circle of abuse clearly, would mean being able to consider the instigators of violence, the perpetrators of violence within a family, be that reciprocal or not, in light of the abuse they suffered at the hands of their parents. Not as a manner of excuse for their behaviour, but as a way to teach them ways of working through the trauma from the abuse that is not them re-playing it time and again, regurgitating the same generational sins as their parents and their parents did, and so forth and so on.

It would mean grabbing the serpent by its tail, understanding that it is a far more complex issue than the feminist hive-mind and their various sultry snake-cult priestesses would have it presented. This way of tackling the issue, however, would of course mean that the feminist movement as well as the domestic violence movement, which is, to be honest, more or less the same thing at this point, would loose not only the stranglehold they have on the discussion but also a wealth of funding and control.

Which I, of course, consider to be a godsend.

But which they clearly do not – hence the first paper linked, wherein they present arguments for acknowledging female perpetrators of domestic violence in order to further the agenda of the movement, not the help or protection of the individual victims of intimate partner violence, nor the families destroyed by it.

Which just goes to show that feminism cares neither for women nor for men, but their own agenda. Whatever that agenda may be at any given moment.

It is definitive proof that feminism as a movement cares for naught but their movement. Women that oppose their movement and the dogma of it all – Erin Pizzey, for instance, can burn in hell for all they are concerned. And men can go to hell as a collective no matter who they are or what they have done. Or what they haven’t done. Where there should be compassion shown to those who are abused no matter their sex, there is naught. All there is is a movement so entrenched in its own ideology and orthodoxy that they willingly – and admittedly – lie in order to further this orthodoxy. At the expense of victims, be they male or female, adult or child.

And that is that.

No individual matter.

Only the party matter.

All else is naught but sacrifices for the serpent-god.

Moiret’s Book, “Howling at a Slutwalk Moon”:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

We Who Fell From Grace/Alphabet-soup/Being But Boys

Illustration: “D”, Moiret Allegiere, 2017

This is a guest post from Moiret Allegiere.  He has a great deal to say about our plight as men in today’s insane misandrist world. You can find his blog here.

We, who so lovingly devolved and fell from grace; who longed to be devoured by the rush and the filth and the harshly whispered words…

who so quickly succumbed to illness, to tribal despotism and despair; who saw sudden surges of revenge pondered in school-yards a-flame…

…who so slowly broke down and fell apart on streets lined with gold…

who so openly announced our departure from our selves for all to hear…

who so honestly drank slow-burning ruination from chalices offered by silver-tongued Succubi speaking soft nothings in our ears…

who so truthfully believed belittling tattle-tales and nursery-rhymes, timid and scared and frozen in the headlights…

who so freakishly, annoyingly, self-devouringly swallowed the hook and line and sinker of preposterous tongue-tied dogmatism…

who so very much longed to prove our worthiness in shaded temples overrun by smog and asbestos by the light of her countenance…

who so dramatically disowned our inner-most being for the flicker of her shanty-town eyes and trash-heap domestication…

who so simple-mindedly tore our beating hearts from our chests through our throats and shattered jaws to present as tokens of our love…

who so lonely in nights beneath concrete-breasts, betwixt asphalt-thighs slick as weapons-grade plutonium, cursed ourselves just for being…

We, who so longed for love that we became a self-mutilating spectacle burning with desires deemed demonic, satanic, beast-like…

who so longed to be loved that we fell from our heads and minds and souls into caricatures resembling anything but ourselves…

who so believed the foul things we were told in classrooms steeped in ideology that our souls, our spirits, died by slight-of-hand suicide…

who so fell for the tranquil war-cry of dogmatic serpents, ideologically blinded by pins and needles, that we waged war upon ourselves…

We, who made ourselves disposable, expendable, throw-away-able..

who made necklaces from our own teeth and presented them as gifts…

who made solemn vows to never be the ones we were…

who made promises to sacrifice and to protect and to serve…

We, who were told we were – by our mere presence – dangerous…

who were told we were – by our very nature – fiends…

who were told we were – by testosterone itself – immature…

who were told we were – by birth – untrustworthy…

We, who were made to make amends for the sins of our fathers…

who were made to take a pledge of inferiority…

who were made to mimic serfdom from infancy…

who were stoned by popular vote…

who were put in laughingstocks for speaking up…

who were hung, drawn and quartered when we drew a line in the sand…

Where are we now?

…lost in opiate-daze, body-outlines drawn in charcoal upon streets of yesteryear, heads resting on pillows of impenetrable street-trash, sleeping rough beneath lonely midnight-clouds, being spat upon by passers-by whom we, in the prime of our youth, swore we should protect?

…lost in manic labyrinthine chores and demands with vision clouded by push-and-prod-and-pulls infinite, minds ensnared by senses of righteous indignation at the here-to, here-now, come-here-boy, slaving away at the rat-race in indebted servitude to make amends for the sins of our fathers?

…lost sleepless between lead-sheets where our groins are slowly eaten away by bedbugs crawling through our shameful erections, working to do what the constant buzz and drone and hum of puerile, infantile, prepubescent publications tell us that we must do in order to be men?

…lost in fulfilling a barrage of incoherent societal demands levied at us for being us; a disastrous crack-haven voice calling for our responsibilities, our self-sacrifice, for us to do better and to be better so that women and children shall be safe and free and be safe to be free and be free to be safe?

…from us…

…lost in alleyways, brutally beaten and kicked to the curb, shot between the eyes and mugged, robbed, ripped apart by violence gratuitous and grandiose, crawling our way through broken bottles and puddles of piss to be told, at the end of the line, that we must end violence against women?

…lost between the spread legs of time, shadows floating by, unseen and unheard, unnoticed and unwanted, vague bodies crippled from stress and melting minds, double-narratives told constantly, double standards imposed upon us, heart, soul, mind, body now lost in time and space?

Where are we now?

…free-falling with arms flailing impotently into some dread future-scape, numbed by cogwheels ticking away, by machinery, by mechanical contraptions brutally burying into our skin and bones, our skulls and minds, our hearts and souls.

…free-falling with temperaments doomed to die, with judgements passed on the monstrous cock, the savage balls, the passage of time from mirrors mirroring history viewed through period-blood, menstruated heavily from high-and-mighty academes who never once tasted truth.

…free-falling into delirious neglect from a society whose whispers maniacally conjure grins and glee toxic and nauseous through perpetual lies and misrepresentations, through hit-pieces a-plenty and the everlasting tide of self-assured cock-shamed shaming of the cock.

…free-falling maddeningly into spirals of deceit where once stood truth atop the shoulders of giants, now ground into spastic broken shards of glass doubtlessly preaching dubious equality handcrafted marvellously from uncertain rustling behind the shower curtains.

…free-falling, lambasted and ridiculed for standing up where once we fell down, delving ever deeper into the solemn solitude of cathedrals erected to honour the death of potent masculinity; the culling of young minds seeing young boys led to the slaughter viciously, maliciously.

…free-falling into chemical castrations; blood and chalk on blackboards coveted by legions of pedagogues armed with orthodox new-truth, pale and pasteurized, homogenized and swollen with lies of a dogmatic nature, dominatrix school-mistress with fell venomous fangs.

We, whose wings were cut, whose fangs were pulled, whose claws were trimmed…

we, whose thoughts were silenced, whose tongues were amputated, whose throats were slit…

we, whose heroism was dubbed toxicity, whose playful banter was labelled hateful, whose sexuality was considered primitive at best…

We of the conveniently neutered generation,

of the conventionally tortured generation,

of the chronically tormented generation…

Who are we now?

…A generation of boys and young men shamed into silence, into servitude, into self-flagellating microcosm misanthropy aimed squarely at our sex and gender…

…A generation of boys and young men whipped into the deserts and the tundra to be food for the vultures and the buzzards and the demons; to feed the roar of the moving dunes, like waves…

…A generation of boys and young men lost within the manifested reality of grim-faced bespectacled poet laureates of fame and befuddled fortune in feudal-systems crafted from narrative convenience in academic stupidity…

…A generation of boys and young men ripped from the arms of their fathers and thrown into dungeons to suffer and then be crushed beneath the weight of the wickedness of the world…

…A generation of boys and young men scarred from a thousand strokes of the whip; the cat of nine tails poignantly expressing the societal dissolution of our very nature…

…A generation of boys and young men being told that they are at fault for the demons in the wilderness, the ghosts at the door, the past, present and future atrocities of humanity…

…A generation of boys and young men who never witnessed the rod being spared; who were spoilt with the tongue-lashings of a million studiously inept traumatized graduate students of brainwashed notoriety…

…A generation of boys and young men lost within the vortex of a de-constructed society, within whose arms and upon whose bosom we were never wanted, wished or welcomed…

…A generation of boys and young men who have been socialized into sacrifice, who have had their sexuality scrutinized, their essence demonized, their eyelids sewn shut with barbed wire…

…A generation of boys and young men raised into self-loathing and cold despair, losing ridiculous societal games by their mere presence considered harmful to all within line of sight…

And we were promised that our problems also mattered.

And we were promised that all should be treated equally under the sun.

And we were promised, were we only to open up, we would be saved.

And we were told the problems of boys and men were of their own making.

And we were told the problems of girls and women were also of men’s making.

…then we were told that boys and men have no problems, but that we are boys and men.

…then we were told to shut up…

…then we were told that we were the problem.

…then we became the problem…

*

Agencies devoid of reason chase us out of bed in stone-cold mornings.

Belated birthday-wishes for the dream that was the child within,

Choked out at the corner of bedlam and squalor,

Delirious and dripping with fright-night splendour,

Eternally seeking empathetic connections – salvation through society.

Fear being what they taught us in our ruptured barnyard-schools,

Gullible as only small children could be,

Hated and shamed for nothing but our crucified cocks,

Illuminated by the rudimentary petticoat-philosophy of nincompoops.

Jealousy reigned supreme in the bloodshot eyes of low-gear thinkers;

KKK-lynchings emulated in child’s play: boys are inferior.

Lying is the path towards miss-understanding,

Maddeningly hiding truth for sake of ideological convenience.

None who speak truth live long to tell the tale;

Only death await those who dare defend the masculine –

Painting perverse, obscene portraits of we who fell from grace –

Quiet, quaint, devilishly innocent political “truth-seekers”,

Raped by sourced evidence and facts to the contrary,

Silencing us as we advance ever more; crossing the borders of obscurity.

To tear the blindfold away from the inebriated waste-face of society,

Understand that society need to know more than lies and slander.

Vile assaults on men, on boys, on masculinity called us out to war.

We will win through persistence this war of nuclear attrition,

Xeroxed and force-fed to our gutless, gullible generation;

Young and old are all the same, tranquillized and mindless,

Zombiefied by rigorous academic intellectual insanity.

*

Being but boys, we lived vivid summer-evenings entranced in woodland playtime, running wild and free through trees infested with trials and tribulations for us to conquer…

…being but boys, we slew monsters and crossed paths with gods in never-ending summer days where we dazed about in frantic free-form imagination, hopelessly devoted to expressive life and love…

…being but boys, we grabbed every minute, every moment, and shook it endlessly, heedless of time passing through us, ecstatic, burning internally with wild warlock energy…

…being but boys, we stomped the ground beneath our feet until it turned to mud, conquering horrifying demons and fears and sweating like mad, hungry, powerful beasts…

…being but boys, we were shamans and warriors, magnificent playwrights of our own shared destinies, found in the holiest of holies, the inner sanctum of boyhood imagination…

…being but boys, we danced to tunes only we could hear in the soft, warm, murmuring summer air, breathlessly entangled and ensnared in lifesaving, life-affirming explosions of joy…

…being but boys, we were unhinged, burning with rebellion, with piss and vinegar, with breaking the cataclysmic chains that tied us to the daily drudgery of routines like superstition…

…being but boys, we evolved and we grew and we came to be young men, affirmed through fear-mongering parasites in burnt-out messianic lectures at school to be viciousness and lust and rage and ruin…

…being but young men, we were thrown overboard, cast adrift, to float face-down in lost mid-summer dreams where hopelessness gripped our throats as saltwater filled our lungs…

…being but young men, we succumbed to the allure of life-denial, taught haphazardly with veiled words sung from irrational gurus atop pinnacles of forced chemical castrations…

…being but young men, we saw our heads stomped by tender feet preaching liturgies of our foul wickedness through tyranny clothed in excruciating religious fanaticism…

…being but young men, we were made to rebel against our selves in days and nights of self-flagellating dishonesty, disrobing our masculinity to cleanse the palates of tin-foil-hat dictators…

…being but young men, we were made to break the supposed mould of maleness imposed upon us by our tyrannical forefathers, whose words and deeds should trickle down from history and manifest in us as shame…

…being but young men, we were shame incarnate, rebuilt, reborn from aeons of historical dust and mist and mud, disgusting swine of society dribbling with glee at every lash of the whip across our backs…

…being but young men, we fell into despair and never uttered a word in opposition to clinical insanity reigning supreme in miraculous lamplight-plays of smoke and mirrors…

…being but young men, we were castigated, ridiculed and shamed, laid in chains and iron and led towards torture-chambers to be confronted with, to admit to, our sins and seek repentance through pain…

And we saw, as men, our friends fall into catatonic states of unbridled drug-abuse, chained to the bottle and the needle as time wore on and wore them down.

And we saw, as men, the falling-out of our sanity linked to pre-programmed academes interrupting the heartbreak with lectures plentiful of shame and neglect.

And we saw, as men, broken and beaten and crushed by the weight of all our sins, God pass by in miniscule whimpers to lead some other stranger to some other far-away land.

And we saw, as men, summer floating into winter, permanently frost-bitten and trembling with hypothermia and repressed rage, our selves blow chunks of brain across living-room walls and floors.

And we saw, as men, suicidal ideation taking the place in our minds where once we used to stomp the ground to mud, where once we used to laugh to our hearts content.

And we saw, as men, our own deaths mirrored in the eyes of society shining with self-assured mockery and overambitious celebration at the death of we, of us, being nothing but men.

And we saw, as men, a world which passed us by and flew above our heads, daring us to reach out and touch its wings and tender beak, to seek its nurture and its love and compassion and fail, for it to mock and laugh…

And we saw, as men, the dawn of our demise where we were drowned in monsoon-rain, choked by moonlight, thrown from the cliffs onto the lashing, crashing, smothering waves below…

And we saw, as men, our friends and then ourselves checking out and longing for release and, after quick snack-breaks in rudimentary ghettos, finding solace in dropping out…

Where are we now?

No longer lost.

No longer losing.

No further fall from grace.

No further need for grace.

No more mindless dogmatic self-flagellation.

No more mindless pilgrimages of redemption.

No more swollen tongues from shutting up.

No more swollen chests from having to prove our worthiness.

We were mockingly proven to be unwanted, unneeded, unnecessary.

We were mockingly proven to be lecherous, treacherous, syphilitic.

We were told we were violence incarnate; anti-Christ resurgence, war, pestilence, famine and death in one neat package of toxic testosterone and vicious venomous boners.

So that now, to still the beating of your hearts; we’ll stand repeating:

There is no balm in Gilead;

and we who fell from grace

shall play this game

ah

nevermore.

Moiret’s Book:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

What makes a man suicide? Rambling on traditional expectations and suicide.

This is a guest post from Moiret Allegiere.  He has a great deal to say about our plight as men in today’s insane misandrist world. You can find his blog here.

_____________________________

 

What makes a man?

Is a man naught but muscles, tendons, organs and primal lust vibrating within a shell clumsily assembled to resemble a human being; an imitation of humanity manspreading viciously beneath a monochromatic sky, nervously anticipating his next oppressive conquest?

Is a man naught but an unfeeling automaton, completely and utterly devoid of basic human emotion, empathy and intimacy; a mass-manufactured cybernetic organism slowly gaining sentience and self-awareness and, in so doing, coming to realise his might, strength and ability to subjugate others to fulfil his own selfish needs?

Is a man naught but a replicant, an android created specifically to do the hard, uninspiring and menial labour society deems to be the low-status jobs; the hard and monotonous, the filthy, dirty, sweaty, dangerous professions filled only by those whom we – in our weird and dissociative state of being – consider to be of less importance, those whom we consider to be disposable, expendable, nameless, faceless, those who move the world?

Is a man naught but a nervous, trembling mass of violent impulses and barely contained rape; a sexually deviant beast, malformed, shapeless, barely cogent in his guttural ululations resembling language and emotive expressions consisting of mere primal urges; to fornicate, procreate, expand his territory, conquer his enemies and then exterminate them?

Is a man naught but a perpetual work-horse, the doer for others, a vibrant shade of history, of his story; to do for others, to sacrifice and to do for others, existing within the frame of mind of those for whom he is expected to sacrifice as nothing but the protector/provider, to be is to do, to do is to be, toodle-do… Does he then disregard his own state of being in order to be locked down in a state of doing so he is not disregarded by others as a being of less value from his lack of doing?

Is this state of being really and truly the state of privilege? Is the bogged down, simplified, dehumanizing view of a man as a human-doing, not a human-being an example of gender-privilege?

To put it in other terms: if a man is killed in war, does anyone hear him scream?

Even more bluntly: when a man is killed in this nonsensical gender-war, why won’t anyone hear him scream?

Why do we refuse to see the suffering of men and of boys in this shivering mass of tentacles and cosmic horrors we have allowed our societies to devolve into?

There is something to be said for traditionalism, apparently, as traditional values are still the expected state of being for a man: to sacrifice himself for the benefit of those around him, disregarding his own well-being, be that well-being psychological or physiological. In a very strict sense, I am not a traditionalist. The simple reason for this is that it chains both man and woman to pre-determined destinies, removing a degree of individual freedom which I would rather not see be removed. In a biological sense, however, it seems the traditional path is the path upon which we all tread, subconsciously, led by the hands of our very nature; our state of being, such that women and children must be protected to ensure the continuation of our species. And if that means the self-sacrifice of men, so be it. Or so the story goes. It does make sense, from a biological perspective. We are, however, in a state of being in which we are able to transcend the purely biological.

This state of being is very clearly reflected in the gender argumentation; the feminist assault on all things traditional whenever a traditional path involves women. Women shall be freed from the constraints of traditionalism. OK.

That I think, is more than fair.

I have no qualms with this.

I believe everyone should be free to follow their own path and do with their lives as they wish to do. And when I say everyone, I actually mean everyone – man and woman alike. And when I say do with their lives as they wish, I mean exactly that – as they wish. As long as no-one does anything against anyone against their wishes, I don’t care what people do with their lives. Tread whichever path you wish. Just remember that your rights end where the rights of someone else begins. In simple terms.

This, of course, does not mean that I will not judge people on their actions. Nor does it mean that I will not comment on these actions. It means, quite simply, that I see absolutely no reason why I should force someone to live a certain way, whether I agree with a certain way of life or not.

When the feminist hive-mind of ravenous virtue and vulturous morality raise their screeching voices in opposition to traditionalism, and howl dementedly at the moon-goddess Luna about freedom from gender-roles, they speak only in regards to women. This would all have been fine and dandy, were it not for the fact that they propose to speak on behalf of both man and woman, that the groin-grabbing metal-claw that is their hands have firmly clasped the scrotum of our distorted discord in regards to gender.

When the clearly female-centric ideology of feminism, whose legacy has granted us such vitriolic hatred and contempt for all things masculine as to be completely dismissed when speaking on behalf of men and boys, proposes to speak on behalf of men and boys, we ought to be worried and we ought to protest this. This is one of those things that are truly worrisome and frightening, and one of the main reasons I have launched my own war against feminism: an ideology orbiting one gender is the only voice heard, or allowed to speak, on behalf of both genders. And this is absolutely nonsensical. However, it ties firmly and neatly into all things traditional. Women must be protected and must be granted any-and-all, if we are to carry this human DNA into the future of mutual delusion that seems to be the path we have chosen. And men and boys must be sacrificed, or be called to, forced to, made to sacrifice themselves on behalf of women and children. And here come the he for she, once again, a speech lauded as revolutionary and fantastic, as something profound and something clever whilst being absolutely nothing but a rehashing of what we have already been doing all through the murky haze of our shared collective history. He for she.

Him go hunt big mammoth, him protect mate. Him make sure harm not come to young. Him bring meat and warm skin of mammoth. Him protect, him provide.

Of course, traditionalism was based around a sense of mutual respect, cooperation and – dare I even say – love, with both parts of a relationship doing for the other part, and in turn for the rest of the family unit. All doing their part. Or, that is my understanding of it. I was born far too late to see traditionalism in full fucking swing. I was born into the era of feminism, within whose auditorium I was told relentlessly and repetitiously about my own wickedness and the sins of my father and my fathers father and my fathers fathers father, for whose sins I must pay with my self-respect, my well-being and my blood, if need be. And in front of the shining and shimmering altar of feminist revisionist history, beneath her fragile goddess-form, I was made to kneel and told to do all I could for whichever woman was unlucky enough to cross my path; whose mere countenance I was lucky to behold and whose footprints and whispering voice should be the be-all, end-all of my life. He for she.

And here come the traditional expectations thrown at men; shackled and chained still in the good old gender-roles which feminism purports to have broken down, disassembled and done away with. To do for women. To do and not to be. To prove himself worthy by virtue of his ability to protect and to provide for her, for the family, for the union of their loins and sweaty groins, or merely for the hope of the unity of their loins and sweaty groins. And all this whilst proclaiming freedom from pre-determined roles for one and all, arguing past oppression as a means to justify the fervent, violent, never-ending assault on all things masculine. Justifying and popularizing hatred and subsequent subjugation of one gender and one gender only through a wilfully hazy recollection of things past.

And just as the future ain’t what it used to be once we grow up and become more cynical and less hopeful, the past ain’t what it used to be once we grow intellectually and are able to critically analyse history and data both, to see that the mirage offered us by feminist historians and pedagogues mirror not history, but wish-tory, a wishy-washy way of pointing to this or to that in order to show how horribly women were treated in ages past; chained to the kitchen and to the home while the men were free to cavort joyously in the wild and gigantic jungles of societies past, swinging from the branches of the trees drunk on their own power with no obligations, no chains and no shackles and no worries, free as free could be in the horrid morning of our modern civilization, prior to the feminist utopia we now see spread-eagled before us on the dusty ground.

If by “free” you mean 14+ hours a day in the coal-mines for incredibly little pay. If by free you mean obligated to provide and to protect for someone who was of far more social worth; of so much worth, in fact, that they could not possibly be expected to sacrifice those hours, days, weeks, months, years of their life and of their safety in dank and horrid caverns, gaining nothing but a barely liveable wage and black lungs from inhaling coal all day, every day, all week, every week.

Strange, that the past is viewed as though it mirrors the present, even when not the case. Childbirth was far more dangerous in those horrible days of yore. For both mother and child. Survival was not guaranteed. Medicine was not what it is today. Our modern miracles of medicine have not always been there, you know. Surely, it makes sense then, in order to keep the woman and the child safe, that they should be at home? That the man should take care of the risky business of making a living – making a living for all, I would add. Life was harder. Things were tougher. One can not look at the past with the lenses of today, claiming that it is like this now, so it was like that then. Things change, times change, progress is made and things do not stay the same, and things have not stayed the same. Sacrifices had to be made, by one and by all. Note, please, that I do not in any way intend to downplay the role of the mother, the wife, the woman in this scenario. Things were surely tough and hard for all. I am simply trying to offer perspective. The past was not hard for women. It was hard for everyone, except the few who wielded power. Yeah, most of those with power were male. This does not mean that men had power. Nor does it mean that now. It does not mean that men in power would benefit men and men only. Nor does it mean that now. That would be the apex-fallacy, gracious xister, wondrous xir. The one percent at the top being this or that does not reflect the 99 percent not at the top, who happen to be this or that.

*

Which brings me to the beginning. What makes a man? Or, to the strangely convoluted point of this ramble: what makes a man suicide? As we can see from the statistics, men are far more at risk of suicide than women. This goes for the entirety of the world, with very few exceptions: ( http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-statistics.html )

This is very clearly a subject with no easy answer, and it is a subject I am somewhat reluctant to tackle. There are many factors and variables at play, and for personal reasons it is a subject which is very near and dear to my heart and gut and balls. It is difficult to write about, because it is a difficult subject.

Speaking from my own personal experience as a thirty-something male, I can not remember one single instance from any school I attended where I heard anything positive and uplifting said in regards to boys and men. Quite the contrary: the focus was always and ever on lifting girls and women up and above, often at the detriment of boys and men. I mention this frequently in my writings, as I consider it to be very important. I don’t think there is anything wrong with lifting girls and women up. Of course there isn’t. There is something wrong with lifting girls and women – and only girls and women – up. Giving positive messages to one gender and one gender only for perceived equality is quite obviously contrary to equality. It is treating one better than the other. And this is happening at schools all the time, across the entire fucking western world.

Not one instance of boys being lifted up and told that they could do whatever they wanted to, be whatever they aspired to be. It was always, from teachers as well as pupils, Girls rule, boys drool. Overt or covert, it did not matter.

Our teachers, infused with feminism and the high-and-mighty flap-jackery of moral virtue, dignity and compassion granted them by the feminine divine, saw no qualms in telling boys that they were the root cause of the evils of the world, as well as telling them – driving the point home with pin-point accuracy as often as possible – that their emotional maturation was far slower than the girls, and as such that the girls were far more mature than the boys. Our very nature was, through this, made out to be wrong, to be of lesser worth and of lesser maturity than the nature of girls. At the same time, we were told that gender was a social construct. Odd then, that emotional maturation in itself was something to be trusted, given the social constructionist bull-shittery of the thing. This of course translated into a covertly – or overtly – hostile environment for the boys.

No mind, never matter, this ain’t no thing, as armies of indoctrinated feminists spouted feminist dogma in their early teens, completely incapable of understanding it or viewing it with any form of critical eye but the severe moral grandstanding of “we – the girls – are oppressed by you – the boys. You owe us.” And there come the entitlement from noxious drones fighting the good cause; a cause into which they had been brainwashed from early days at school, indoctrinated into severe entitlement translating into a distrust and putting-down-off boys, whose lives and value to themselves through the very same indoctrination mattered less and became less than that of the girls; whose aspirations in life mattered little and whose ability to reach, as it were, for the stars had to be put aside and trodden into the ground so that the girls should be lifted up, at the expense of the boys. Boys whom, it must also be mentioned, were diagnosed with ADD or ADHD and put on brain-altering and highly addictive chemicals for the crime of being a boisterous boy trapped in an environment not tailored nor suited to him.

Is there any wonder, then, that suicide is such a big killer of young men? There has never been – in my lifetime – any focus on lifting up boys, on making boys feel good about themselves. Quite the contrary. Boys have been told to make amends for years of so-called oppression carried out by their forefathers. Boys have been told that they are rapists-in-waiting, that any sexual desire they may feel should be a source of shame, that their sexuality is simplistic and primitive.

And this from schools, whose teachers are supposed to be the ones from whom facts and truths about the world shall be made clear. It translates into confusion. Chivalry. Confusion. Girls and boys are of equal worth, we are told. So why shall boys and men sacrifice for the well-being and the up-lifting of girls and women at the expense of themselves? Why shall we then not expect the same standards, the same responsibilities for one self from girls as we do for boys? Shall not girls and boys cooperate? Shall not women and men cooperate? Giving and receiving in equal measures, being told the same so as to lift both up? In this age of equality, why is it only the lives, well-being, future, of girls that matter, and why must the boys be thrown to the wolves?

Revenge.

Revenge and retribution for perceived prior oppression.

Revenge.

Reparations paid by a generation of boys and young men who have done nothing wrong but be born with a set of cock and balls on their battle banner in this manufactured gender war, manufactured by ideologues whose gripe with the world at large translates into psychosis – a dissociative state from whose point of view all is translucent, fleeting and nonsensical, with no values but the emotional knee-jerk reaction of offence taken for the sake of taking offence.

And growing further from this den of indoctrination, young girls grow up to be young women, and still being told the same thing – girls rule the world. You can do anything, you can be anything, boys drool, girls rule. And young boys grow up to be young men, still hearing the same – girls rule, girls can be all, boys and men must help girls and women.

And no-one must help boys and men, not even themselves.

Boys and men are driven into a life of servitude – driven into the same traditional gender-roles which the feminist hive-mind claim to have eradicated. Now, they may claim that they have eradicated it for men as well. But this is simply not true. And this is made evident in the words and actions of feminists themselves, who still demand men do for them, sacrifice for them, giving them their all whilst having no right to demand anything in return. In our secular societies, for lack of God, we have given the position of deity to the exalted state of womanhood – to give to her, to do for her, to make for her, to pray to her so that she may absolve us of our sins and so that we may become – to her eyes and mind and ears and claws – redeemed, cleansed and worthy of the heavenly bliss that is her companionship.

Through this lens of equality, boys and men are told that their path towards healing is wrong. That we need to open up and talk about our feelings, instead of repressing them. As if the feminine path to healing wherein emotions are discussed is the one and only path towards healing. Men, in general terms, are drawn towards action as a means of healing. Or, failing that, solitude. To mull things over on their own. Whereas women are drawn to social circles, seeking comfort in friends and in family. There is nothing wrong with this. The issue comes when boys and men are told to heal in a manner contrary to their nature, as if their very nature and their natural path towards healing is wrong. As if we only act a certain way, not that we are a certain way. The mere notion that men only act manly is insulting in and off itself. Try telling a woman to stop acting like a woman all the time, and see what results you get. It wouldn’t be accepted. But boys and men are supposed to accept it; the narrative of toxic masculinity being what kills men. As a boy becomes a man, the first thing he realizes, if he listens to this gobsmacking advice, is that there is no-one there willing to listen to his problems. He might open up as much as he may; the best he can get is half-interested nods and blinks. The worst he can get is being told he suffers from fragile masculinity, which is odd considering his apparent toxic masculinity is what causes him to not talk about his issues. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Laying down, as the ground-rules for discourse, that the very nature of men is faulty does contribute, in my view, to the suicide rates in no small way.

Keep in mind that I am writing on feminism, not women. That, although feminism wishes it to be so, feminism does not equal women. And women does not equal feminism. Feminism has become, for all intents and purposes, a religion. It is a cult. It is a dogmatic victim-cult, hell-bent on revenge, fuelled by its own mythology, maintaining a canon of saints and prophets whose words and deeds shall not be taken in vain, or be set upon by arguments. Feminism has become untouchable. And dangerous. And its reach is such that it has infiltrated everything; the medieval catholic church packaged anew. No-one expects the feminist inquisition! Yet, one and all should expect the feminist inquisition, as they come rampaging and roaring and screeching your way the moment you voice opposition to their dogma and their orthodoxy.

Young boys shown feminism as the true path towards equality between the genders from an early age are sure to believe it. Even when experiencing, time and again, that it does not view the genders as equal. Even when experiencing, time and again, that the dogmatic victim-cult treats the genders quite the opposite of equally. All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others. Through indoctrination and through brainwashing, their belief, as well as the belief of the girls, in feminism and feminism only is ground into them from an early age. And experiencing the forked serpentine tongue of feminism upon their soul and their bodies may only breed cognitive dissonance. On the one hand, they are told that we are all equal and that we are all treated equally. On the other, they are shown through actions and words that they are not. And being told, time and again, of the errors of their ways by their very nature, through no fault of their own, confusion breeds within. Confusion and inner turmoil.

Men are overrepresented in all the negative statistics – victims of violence, drug and substance abuse, homelessness, suicide, joblessness, hopelessness, despair and grimness, lower age expectancy and dying more often at work. And what are we doing about this? We are focusing solely on girls and on women, and are told when trying to bring up these facts, that it is not a gendered issue and so we must not view this through the lens of gender. The gendered lens is brought out solely when girls and women are perceived as, or can be made out to be, the sole or main victims of some societal ill or other. Then – and only then – will it be perceived as a gendered issue. But when boys and men fall victim to the horrors of societal ills, it does not need to be treated as a gendered issue. Incredibly strange, is it not? It is a gendered issue whenever women can be made out to be the most affected. It is not a gendered issue whenever men can be made out to be the most affected.

It is the grim sensation of hopelessness settling in our chests and in our stomachs. A grim spectre of purposelessness and a loss of direction. Boys and men are not needed, we are told from a tender age. Because we need to lift the girls and the women up and above. The point is driven home, time and again, through mass-media mass-manufacturing the same vile hatred of boys, men and masculinity due to the mass-media now being infected with the girls and women who grew up with these tall tales of feminism being served them on a silver-platter all through their education, teaching them that they are above reproach and that boys and men are below them and owe them their lives and their servitude. And it has such a stranglehold on our societies that speaking about it like I do gets me labelled a misogynist.

Me, the foul misogynist, wanting the genders to be treated equally and given equal rights under law. Sounds like a horrid hater of women, no? Me, the foul misogynist, wishing for cooperation and balance to the discourse on gender. Imagine what paths we have been made to tread to make it so. Imagine how crooked these paths are, and with so many forks in the road being made necessary in order to justify labelling someone wanting equal treatment of the sexes as a hater of one sex and one sex only.

These talking points that feminism is only about equality, that it is not about hating men, need to be taken away. For they are simply not true. At the rotten heart of feminism lie the blatant hatred of men and of masculinity itself. Which is why I constantly bring up feminism. To get to the root of the rot within our societies, we need to examine feminism. And then we need to dismantle it, remove it from its positions of leadership and get this ridiculous neural imprint of ours that it is only about equality stripped away. To heal the hurt of our societies, we need to remove the rot. And we must bring balance to the discourse. Equal treatment of the genders is not a topic to be discussed by one voice and one voice only. In particular when that one voice has as its sole focus one gender and one gender only. How incredibly authoritarian, how fantastically totalitarian, how astonishingly arrogant, must one be to imagine to be the only set of ideas worth anything, and thus the only voice allowed to speak on behalf of gender? Feminism proves time and again that it knows jack shit about men. So why in the snoot-fuck should we allow them to speak on behalf of men? It is ridiculous, preposterous and ideological. And that is all it is.

I am frightfully aware of the fact that my writings tend to be bleak and hopeless, offering little in the way of solution; perhaps only offering some cathartic release. This is, more like than not, a product of my own bleak hopelessness and despair in regards to how the winds of our societies are blowing.

This despair and hopelessness goes contrary to what I actually wish to achieve with these writings.

I have no intention of staying lost in a pit of hopelessness and despair.

I have no wish to stay trapped within a cage of anger and rage either.

And I do not wish this for others.

The fact of the matter, though, and the pure realistic view of things makes it very easy to justify both feelings of hopelessness and of anger. And detaching from justified anger is as difficult as detaching from hopelessness when once it has settled within oneself.

This hopelessness leads to bleak outlooks, leads to checking out and not returning. And that is not good. Unless one turns it around. Turning ones back on society and becoming the archetypal rebel-character, living by his own rules, may well be a strength within itself; a fantastic picture of self-reliance and individual strength as much as it may be a picture of someone who society has cast aside. Own your self and own your shit.

The message sent to girls and women is a message that should also be sent to boys and to men; that they are strong and able and that one should aspire to live to the best of ones abilities. So why not send it to boys and men as well?

The sensation of hopelessness, the loss of direction, the loss of a sense of purpose and a sense of self all ties into, I think, the view of men as doers of things; as being what we do and defining ourselves from what we do, instead of what we are. Men as utilities, as disposable servants for the greater good (Cue Hot Fuzz – “the Greater Good”) of society. This is an archaic notion of men upheld as much by traditional values as by feminist dogma demanding men do for women – by which they mean, of course, feminism – even when claiming they don’t need no man. Again, I am reminded of He for She, which I think is one of the most insulting speeches I have ever heard. It is the view of men as protectors and providers, of caretakers and chivalrous knights saving the poor maiden wrapped up neatly and nicely in a new package; painting women as helpless victims and objects acted upon by evil men and in need of being saved by good men, even if the view is that all men are wicked and false at heart. Men are being told that we are not needed, by and large, whilst still being expected to rush to the aid of damsels in distress. We are not needed. Except when called upon to help women.

What we need to do is to consider ourselves as human beings first and foremost. To get to know our self. To define ourselves from what and who we are, not from what we do. To consider ourselves as our selves first, and what we do second, so that our humanity comes before our utility. In so doing, the need we feel to prove our usefulness comes second to the strength we have in our sense of self, our belief in our own strength and value as a human being. This, I think, will lessen the stranglehold of feminism in no small way, as there will be no men rushing to the forefront of the gender-war to prove themselves useful and thereby valuable. Because we have already become aware of our selves; we will already know that we have value in and off ourselves. Through this way of thinking, I think, it will all begin and it will all end – beginning with a whisper in the depths of the manosphere, and, given time, ending in a cacophony of vibrant, fantastic, rapturous and celebratory laughter vibrating fantastically throughout our societies.

 

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Moiret Allegiere is a concerned man who has had enough, and finally started expressing his views on mens issues and the state of the world.  His blog can be found here.

Top Menaregood Videos!

I put together a new playlist on the menaregood youtube channel.  Many have asked me what videos were the best for men’s issues.  I have made over a hundred vids so I handpicked 18 of what I considered the top menaregood videos. Here they are!  You can also use this link to go to youtube and see all 18 in the right hand sidebar and click through them.